War and Peace : Book 01, Chapter 03

1869

People

(1828 - 1910) ~ Father of Christian Anarchism : In 1861, during the second of his European tours, Tolstoy met with Proudhon, with whom he exchanged ideas. Inspired by the encounter, Tolstoy returned to Yasnaya Polyana to found thirteen schools that were the first attempt to implement a practical model of libertarian education. (From : Anarchy Archives.) • "...the dissemination of the truth in a society based on coercion was always hindered in one and the same manner, namely, those in power, feeling that the recognition of this truth would undermine their position, consciously or sometimes unconsciously perverted it by explanations and additions quite foreign to it, and also opposed it by open violence." (From : "A Letter to a Hindu: The Subjection of India- Its....) • "If, in former times, Governments were necessary to defend their people from other people's attacks, now, on the contrary, Governments artificially disturb the peace that exists between the nations, and provoke enmity among them." (From : "Patriotism and Government," by Leo Tolstoy, May 1....) • "You are surprised that soldiers are taught that it is right to kill people in certain cases and in war, while in the books admitted to be holy by those who so teach, there is nothing like such a permission..." (From : "Letter to a Non-Commissioned Officer," by Leo Tol....)

CHAPTER III

Anna Pávlovna’s reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed steadily
and ceaselessly on all sides. With the exception of the aunt, beside whom
sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face was rather out
of place in this brilliant society, the whole company had settled into
three groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed round the abbé. Another,
of young people, was grouped round the beautiful Princess Hélène, Prince
Vasíli’s daughter, and the little Princess Bolkónskaya, very pretty and
rosy, though rather too plump for her age. The third group was gathered
round Mortemart and Anna Pávlovna.

The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished
manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of
politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in which
he found himself. Anna Pávlovna was obviously serving him up as a treat to
her guests. As a clever maître d’hôtel serves up as a specially choice
delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in the kitchen would
have cared to eat, so Anna Pávlovna served up to her guests, first the
vicomte and then the abbé, as peculiarly choice morsels. The group about
Mortemart immediately began discussing the murder of the Duc d’Enghien.
The vicomte said that the Duc d’Enghien had perished by his own
magnanimity, and that there were particular reasons for Buonaparte’s
hatred of him.

“Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte,” said Anna Pávlovna, with a
pleasant feeling that there was something à la Louis XV in the
sound of that sentence: “Contez nous çela, Vicomte.”

The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness to
comply. Anna Pávlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone to
listen to his tale.

“The vicomte knew the duc personally,” whispered Anna Pávlovna to one of
the guests. “The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur,” said she to another.
“How evidently he belongs to the best society,” said she to a third; and
the vicomte was served up to the company in the choicest and most
advantageous style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef on a hot
dish.

The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.

“Come over here, Hélène, dear,” said Anna Pávlovna to the beautiful young
princess who was sitting some way off, the center of another group.

The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with which
she had first entered the room—the smile of a perfectly beautiful
woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed with moss and ivy,
with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and sparkling diamonds, she
passed between the men who made way for her, not looking at any of them
but smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the privilege of
admiring her beautiful figure and shapely shoulders, back, and bosom—which
in the fashion of those days were very much exposed—and she seemed
to bring the glamour of a ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna
Pávlovna. Hélène was so lovely that not only did she not show any trace of
coquetry, but on the contrary she even appeared shy of her unquestionable
and all too victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to
diminish its effect.

“How lovely!” said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted his
shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something extraordinary
when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also with her
unchanging smile.

“Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience,” said he, smilingly
inclining his head.

The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and considered a
reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the story was being
told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful round arm, altered in
shape by its pressure on the table, now at her still more beautiful bosom,
on which she readjusted a diamond necklace. From time to time she smoothed
the folds of her dress, and whenever the story produced an effect she
glanced at Anna Pávlovna, at once adopted just the expression she saw on
the maid of honor’s face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile.

The little princess had also left the tea table and followed Hélène.

“Wait a moment, I’ll get my work.... Now then, what are you thinking of?”
she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. “Fetch me my workbag.”

There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking merrily
to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in her seat.

“Now I am all right,” she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she took
up her work.

Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle and moving
a chair close to hers seated himself beside her.

Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary
resemblance to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that in
spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features were like
his sister’s, but while in her case everything was lit up by a joyous,
self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation, and by the
wonderful classic beauty of her figure, his face on the contrary was
dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of sullen self-confidence,
while his body was thin and weak. His eyes, nose, and mouth all seemed
puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace, and his arms and legs always fell
into unnatural positions.

“It’s not going to be a ghost story?” said he, sitting down beside the
princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if without this
instrument he could not begin to speak.

“Because I hate ghost stories,” said Prince Hippolyte in a tone which
showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he had
uttered them.

He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be sure
whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. He was dressed in a
dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of cuisse de nymphe
effrayée, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings.

The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then current,
to the effect that the Duc d’Enghien had gone secretly to Paris to visit
Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon Bonaparte, who also
enjoyed the famous actress’ favors, and that in his presence Napoleon
happened to fall into one of the fainting fits to which he was subject,
and was thus at the duc’s mercy. The latter spared him, and this
magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by death.

The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point where
the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked
agitated.

“Charming!” said Anna Pávlovna with an inquiring glance at the little
princess.

“Charming!” whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into her
work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story
prevented her from going on with it.

The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully prepared
to continue, but just then Anna Pávlovna, who had kept a watchful eye on
the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he was talking too loudly
and vehemently with the abbé, so she hurried to the rescue. Pierre had
managed to start a conversation with the abbé about the balance of power,
and the latter, evidently interested by the young man’s simple-minded
eagerness, was explaining his pet theory. Both were talking and listening
too eagerly and too naturally, which was why Anna Pávlovna disapproved.

“The means are ... the balance of power in Europe and the rights of the
people,” the abbé was saying. “It is only necessary for one powerful
nation like Russia—barbaric as she is said to be—to place
herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its object
the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and it would save the
world!”

“But how are you to get that balance?” Pierre was beginning.

At that moment Anna Pávlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre,
asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The Italian’s face
instantly changed and assumed an offensively affected, sugary expression,
evidently habitual to him when conversing with women.

“I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the
society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have had the
honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think of the
climate,” said he.

Not letting the abbé and Pierre escape, Anna Pávlovna, the more
conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the larger
circle.